Long legs

I remember the time I caught him looking.

Long-legged, black pencil skirted blonde-

Or was it brunette? My hindsighted scrutiny blurs, permits me the generosity of not being able to recall.

Long legs, long woman enquiring at the Reception, I wonder if her cluster fuck distraction occurred in vain.

Transfixed he was. Shamefully.

It was not like him to let his desires be so openly known.

My gaze travelling from him to her.

And back to him. Confused as to the brazen barefaced observation of Long legs.

His eyes met mine briefly and learned of their discovery…

“The, er…the Interpreter, Is that the Interpreter?…”

In the moment I belonged to his sincerity, and the cruciality of an individual on hand to translate something of importance was surely, important.

His falseness was always corroborated by rationality.

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